His lilliputian masters, pale and strong,
With melancholy sound for plain and hill
Man's last Familiar Spirit whistles shrill.
Poor devil of the plains, now spent and frail,
Hovering wildly on the fatal trail,
Pass on!—there lies thy way and thine abode,
Get out of Jonathan thy master's road.
Where? anywhere!—he's not particular where,
So that you clear the road, he does not care;
Off, quick! clear out! ay, drink your fill and die;